


All the Rays of Sun

by Staraxia



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, and some philosophical discussions if I'm up to it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-08-19 18:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20214160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Staraxia/pseuds/Staraxia
Summary: Two years after his brother's passing, Madara meets a whimsical barista sans botanical enthusiast when a storm blows him into the man's cafe. Free coffee and coincidences aside, he still ends up there far more often than he can justify, even to himself.Or, The HashiMada coffeeshop AU that nobody asked for





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PaddyChan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaddyChan/gifts).

> A "thank you" for PaddyChan, who was the first person to ever mention me in an author's note! It might not seem that special to anyone reading this, but for a weirdo like me, it meant a lot that someone cared enough about my comments on their story to publically mention it. I can only hope that by the time I'm finished, this story will be sufficient to show my gratitude, so until then, thanks again!

A string of bells tinkled cheerfully as Madara slipped through the door of the little café. He cringes on instinct, hating the idea of drawing attention to himself in an unfamiliar place, but thankfully the interior was already quite crowded, likely due to the raging storm outside. He heads straight for the lone table in the corner, allowing himself of a sigh of relief only once he had settled into a cushy chair, well tucked out of sight from the rest of the clientele.

Madara takes a measured breath, breathing in the warm, coffee-scented air and the comforting interior décor. He could feel his shoulders slowly dropping as he relaxed deeper into the cushions. Every other table he could see was occupied, and yet the flowering house plants around him seemed to almost shelter him from the rest of the bustle. He could already feel his eyelids fluttering shut as the pleasant clamor of the café swept over him like a lullaby, drowning out the sounds of the thunder outside.

He sighed deeply and allows himself to snuggle into the folds of his scarf, and he tucks his gloved hands just a little deeper into his pockets. This was a beautiful establishment, both inside and out, he thought. Every day on his way to work he would walk past the lovely storefront, glancing at its rustic wooden panels and flowering vines with appreciative eyes, but of course he never went inside. He didn’t really belong in a place like this, with his trademark dark overcoat, dark grey scarf, and large black computer satchel.

Even now, he felt as if he had brought a living piece of the rainstorm into this warm little haven, but today he simply could not help himself. The deluge outside had proved too much for even him to handle.

As his mind drifted in a rare haze of comfort, it occurred to him that he should probably buy something, since he was essentially using the facilities free of charge right now. However, he could not seem drag himself out of his chair quite yet. Instead, Madara only tucked himself deeper into the extraordinarily comfortable chair, content with letting his mind wander further as he waited for the torrent outside to subside. He was already drifting on the edge of wakefulness when a deep, rich baritone gently tugged him back to the land of the conscious.

“Hello! I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before, is this your first time here?”

Madara blinked slowly once or twice, his mind still foggy with drowsiness, and it took him several seconds longer than it should have to focus on the man who was currently standing before him. His eyes snagged on the ends of long, neatly-trimmed hair, and he followed that waterfall of strands up, up, and up to behold a warm smile and even warmer eyes, dark and reminiscent of fresh-brewed espresso.

“…yes, it is,” Madara replied after a moment, keeping his voice carefully clipped as he did so. Now that he was more awake, his old defense mechanisms were rebooting. He blinked slowly as he took in the stranger—a comfortably dressed man in a cotton beige sweater and dark-colored jeans, with one of those timeless looks about him that made it difficult to guess his age. As far as Madara was concerned, his words formed the perfect response—short, to the point, and spoken with just enough of a polite edge to keep the vast majority of people at a respectable distance.

The stranger, however, seemed to be operating on a different wavelength entirely. “Wonderful! I thought that was the case, since I’d definitely remember your face if I’ve seen it before,” the man mused, before continuing brightly, “It’s my personal goal to at least introduce myself to every new guest when they walk through the doors of my shop. There’s a lot more guests than usual right now though, so I sincerely apologize for not having seen you until now! I’m Hashirama, and I run this little place here. And you are?”

“…It’s Madara,” he finally answered after just managing to comb through the man’s sentences. His tone was just short of curt. There was still hope that he could keep this as a painless, one-time interaction, just as he had done with all the other strangers who have tried to approach him before. He had already been aloof by nature, and the innumerable corporate gatherings he was forced to attend have only perfected his skill at dodging company.

However, this Hashirama seemed to be completely impervious to his endeavors. “You want me to just call you by first name?” he asked, seeming puzzled if not slightly concerned, “I mean, there’s no pressure to give your family name if you don’t want to, I just don’t want to be rude is all.”

“Yes,” Madara replied, slightly perturbed by the genuine _care _he detected in the other man’s voice, “just ‘Madara’ is fine.”

“Alright, well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Madara!” Hashirama seemed to visibly relax upon his confirmation. Any hesitancy he had previously displayed was replaced by a beaming smile that seemed to light up the storefront. “Would you like something to drink? First-time order is on the house, so feel free to get whatever you want!”

“Um, no that’s—” Madara began just as a particularly hard blast of rain crashed into the window he was seated next to like a wave, rattling the glass. His gloved hands tightened involuntarily on the armrests, and he mumbled, “on second thought, something warm would be quite nice right now.”

Hashirama grinned. “No problem,” he said, chuckling heartily, “there are many visitors here that I only have the fortune to meet because of storms like these, you know. May I get you a cup of coffee?”

“…with cream and sugar.”

“Of course! I’ll bring those by too.” And all too sudden Hashirama was gone again, seemingly just as suddenly as he had appeared.

Madara blinked owlishly. He scanned the premises for a clock, wondering how long he had drifted off, but there was not one to be found anywhere in the premises. A vague part of him wondered how Hashirama even enforced his café hours without one before his rationale snidely pointed out the existence of cellphones. Even so, he thought, Hashirama did not seem like the kind of man who would kick people out as soon as closing time struck. If anything, the man seemed like he would be more than willing to break his own work schedule if it meant his ‘visitors’ were happy.

Now _that _was one of the little things about Hashirama that Madara had noticed immediately—that the man had never once referred to his café customers as such, but rather always called them ‘visitors’ or ‘guests.’ It was a markedly humanizing shift from the world of market values and exchange that Madara was tangled up in everyday, where individuals ceased to become people and rather became mere numbers on a page, valuable only in the sense that they _consumed. _And yet, here was Hashirama, who seemed to have taken a completely different approach to such things, despite running a business himself.

How curious.

“Here you are!” And the man was back in a sweep of chocolate hair and espresso eyes. He set down a generous mug of steaming coffee before Madara, along with an admittedly-adorable jug of cream and a sugar jar. “Sorry, I dunno how sweet you like your drinks yet, or I would have done this part myself.” He reached into the folds of the black apron he now sported, producing a silver spoon and stirring rod, both of which he handed to Madara.

Madara took the utensils with the slightest hesitation. The spoon felt especially awkward in his hands due to the leather gloves he was wearing, yet the idea of stripping them off in public before a stranger twisted his stomach. Fortunately, the sugar jar was of the clamp variety rather than the usual twisty cap—much easier for his gloves hands to handle. Every scrape, every clink seemed positively deafening to his ears, and through it all Hashirama was watching him with rapt attention.

Madara cringed at the attentiveness. “Do you mind?” he snapped with a little more fervor than he had intended.

“Eh?” Hashirama blinked once, his brows knitting together slightly, and when he spoke it was with an air of genuine confusion. “Is something the matter?”

“Could you stop the… you’re staring at me, damn it,” he grumbled, swearing more colorfully in his head as he felt heat rush up his face. “You’ve been watching me nonstop for the past few minutes or so, and I find it…uncomfortable,” he clarified.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Hashirama’s eyes widened. He took a hasty step back from where he had been leaning against the table, holding up both hands in a peaceable gesture. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, it’s just that most of my guests come here fairly often so I know their orders already. I don’t know yours yet, of course, since we just met, but that’s why I have to pay attention!”

Madara blinked. “Pay attention to what?”

Hashirama laughed in response, a warm, wonderful sound that made Madara relax a little more despite himself. “Just to what you’re putting into your coffee! That way if we do meet again, I’ll know to have a warm mug of coffee ready for you with two spoons of sugar and a half-pint of cream.”

“And you do this for all your customers?” Madara’s eyes swept over the packed premises as he spoke, the dubiousness in his tone unmistakable.

“Yep! At least, I think I have to the best of my knowledge. There may have been a few visitors who slipped past me here or there, but I should have at least one order memorized for everyone in this shop right now.”

Madara just stared at him. “Sure,” he said, taking a long sip of his coffee.

Any normal person would have been at least stung by the blatant skepticism Madara had packed into that one word. Hashirama was utterly unperturbed. He just smiled once in a knowing way, as if daring Madara to challenge his claim, before brightly changing the subject. “Well Madara, what do you think of the place?”

“It’s…bright, I suppose. And the plants are nice, though there seems to be…a lot of them around.” Which was an understatement. The café was fairly bedecked in flora—every table and countertop sported a flowering centerpiece, and even the walls and ceilings were laden with an array of ingenious planters, all of which boasted real plants. Madara had to wonder at how the blooms were all in such pristine condition.

“I’m so glad you like them!” Hashirama beamed upon his answer. “The plants are a love of mine. When I’m not spending time with my guests, I’ll usually be taking care of them. They help keep the place lively, don’t you think?”

Madara nodded a little slowly. The caffeine from his initial sip was finally starting to kick in, and he felt his mental gears turn a bit more smoothly. “They do make it livelier,” he agreed, taking another sip of his coffee. “I do like the ones you have here in the corner.”

“Ahh, the peace lily.” Hashirama’s blinding grin softened into a smile. “I’m glad you noticed them. Granted, I put them in this corner precisely because this spot can be easy to overlook. Their blossoms are plain in comparison to most of the others here, but I thought they’d be suitable company for my more _reclusive_ visitors, am I right?”

Madara looked up from his mug. Hashirama’s gaze met his own unflinchingly, though not in an unkind way. The look in those warm, espresso eyes was more knowing than anything else. “…I guess so,” he said at last, his voice low.

Hashirama seemed to study him for a moment. The smile never left his face, and if possible, it only gentled further. “I hope you did not take offense to my words, Madara. We did only just meet, and I know you have no reason to trust me, but do believe it when I say that I only want you to feel welcome, alright? Please feel free to come by again whenever you like. I’ll be around should you want anything else.” He flashed Madara one last smile, and then he was gone again in a sweep of black apron and chocolate strands.

Madara was left alone at the small table, coffee mug in hand, staring. Only a few moments later did he finally move. The mug sits back on the table with a clink, and he sighs, only to have to shield his eyes when a sudden brilliant light flooded his field of vision. He blinks and turns towards that light, squinting, and he sees—

—_Oh._

It was the sun. Somehow, sometime during his interaction with that man—_Hashirama_, his mind supplied automatically—the storm had abated, and now the sun was breaking through the clouds, rushing in through the café windows.

He makes as if to rise, then stills, one hand drifting almost absently to his heart. It seemed to tremor at his touch. And for just a moment, his gaze turns back towards the interior of the café—wide, wondering, the possibilities brimming.

Madara leaves. He storms out of the café in a swirl of dark scarf and coat, his mug of coffee unfinished on the table. One hand clutches at his workbag, the other a fist over his heart, and he _squeezes_.

He swears he would not go back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written on very little sleep so apologies in advance for any weird mishaps

_Shadows. Grasping, wailing, pulling at his sleeves. The smell of antiseptic. A burst of red that fills his entire vision. For a moment it’s dark, then all too bright, then…a voice? It’s even-toned, clinical. Possibly a man. It’s saying something, but the words are garbled, fading in and out of his consciousness. The meaning is lost upon him. _

_“You know what they’re saying, don’t you?” _

_This voice is a younger one. It’s distinct, almost amused. His blood runs cold at the sound of it. He turns slowly, and sure enough there stands his little brother, scarlet gauze still layered over his eyes from where the windshield had pierced them through. _

_“You know, don’t you?” What used to be Izuna repeats pleasantly, before it steps forward and with a blur of bone-white fingers, rips into Madara’s chest. _

Madara’s eyes fly open. The whites of the ceiling flicker into view and for a moment he almost thinks he’s back in the hospital again, until his ears register that it’s all too quiet and still for him to be in ICU.

The display on the nightstand reads ‘Tuesday, 4:36 AM.’ Outside, the windows are still dark—it is now late autumn, and the daylight grows ever shorter. His heart is still racing from the aftereffects of the dream and he breathes deeply to calm it, clambering slowly to sit upright on his bed. For some time he simply sits there, bile curdling in his throat, until finally he throws back the covers and steps into his house slippers, blinking wearily.

There’s no point in going back to bed_._ He knows that much from experience.

***

He goes through the motions of the morning, and all too soon he’s standing at his countertop, watching the ancient coffeemaker groan and splutter to life. Beyond the windows it is still dark—sometime after 5:00 AM, maybe. The countertop is cool beneath his gloved fingertips. He watches as the coffee slowly trickles in the pot, drip-drip, drip-drip, and his mind wanders off unbidden to that stormy afternoon of two weeks past.

It had been a lovely afternoon, with him nestled inside that cozy little café while the rain lashed against the window. The rich sweetness of that coffee had lingered in his memory, and he thinks a little ruefully of the unfinished cup he had left behind in his haste to escape. He had thought of going back for it when he crossed the threshold, but the thought of seeing that man again was simply too much_—_he had scrapped the idea and gone home instead.

The image comes forth with near-impeccable detail—espresso colored eyes, boring into his own, scorching in their kindness. An all-too-knowing gaze that seemed to strip him bare. Even now he has to tamp down the urge to flee, though there’s nothing to flee from and the owner of those eyes has now by all likelihood forgotten him.

A faint hiss of steam informs him that the coffeemaker had done its work. Absently, he pours himself a mugful, measuring cream and sugar with mechanical familiarity. He eyes the steaming dark liquid with a pinched look and downs it scalding hot. The taste is utilitarian, but it’s what he’s used to dealing with, which makes it predictable. Controllable.

Safe.

_And that’s all that matters_, he tells himself as he slips on his customary coat and scarf, computer bag clutched at his side. Gloved hands swing open the front door and footsteps recede into the distance, leaving his apartment cold and empty long before sunrise.

***

Work, as always, was decidedly unpleasant. He walks out of corporate high-rise buildings guarded by double sliding doors and feels as worn as the sidewalk beneath his shoes. The wan orange streetlights did little to improve his mood—the sun had set long before his last meeting let out. His ears were still ringing with the complaints of disgruntled shareholders and board members alike, and he thinks he would have absconded to the mountains _long _ago if not for that one promise he made.

He turns and walks straight down the block with no real destination in mind, his only coherent thought being to get away from the building as quickly as possible. It’s only when he stops for traffic at a familiar intersection that he realizes he’s walked a little further than he should have, and the little café he had just reminisced about this morning was now a mere pace or two to his left.

Madara blinked slowly. Last time he had been in such a rush to get out of the storm that he had not even registered the name of the place. He skims over the shop’s façade now and his eyes alight on a simple, flower-wreathed wooden sign over the door: _Flourish and Coffee_. The name is so straightforward that Madara nearly laughs out loud, yet he also thinks it fitting. It was exactly the sort of name that he could picture the café’s whimsical owner coming up with.

The sign by the entrance declared the café’s hours to be 7AM to 9PM on weekdays. Madara checks his wristwatch—it’s 8:58PM—and on a whim he peers in through the glass door. All the lights inside were still on, though the space itself seemed mostly empty. A young couple brushes past him on their way out, and a solitary woman was packing up her laptop at a corner table. “Good night,” the woman calls back into the café as she’s leaving, and with a jolt he realizes he’s lingered too long.

“Madara? Is that you?”

He’s torn for an instant between fleeing or staying—it’s that moment which costs him, and a familiar figure emerges from the now-empty café. His sweep of chocolate hair is gathered up into a ponytail this time, though he’s still wearing that combo of sweater, dark pants, and apron. His espresso eyes are warm with delight when he sees Madara. “It really is you!” he exclaims as he ushers Madara inside, “Come on in, it’s so nice to see you again! How have you been? I know the hour is late, but would you care for a cup of coffee nonetheless?”

A few moments later Madara is perched awkwardly on a stool beside the coffee bar. He has no idea how he got there. “You remembered my name,” he says in a daze, but the man simply glances at him from behind the coffee machine and laughs merrily.

“Of course I do,” he said brightly, “it would be quite rude of me to forget, especially after I made a point of learning it from you, now wouldn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t remember yours,” Madara murmurs. He’s lying through his teeth, because how can a warmth as scalding as _Hashirama_ be so easily forgotten, but to admit that it affected him—that was different. He burrows a little deeper into his coat almost subconsciously, gloved hands already tucked deep into his pockets.

“That’s perfectly alright.” A trickle, a few clinks, and a jingle of silverware later, a steaming mug seems to materialize in Hashirama’s hands, which he passes across the countertop to Madara. “Here you go! I added a touch more milk, since it’s night time, but the rest should hopefully be correct.”

Madara stares into the mug. The dark, aromatic liquid stares back. “Aren’t you supposed to be closed?” he hears himself ask.

“Eh, it’s not that much later than closing time,” Hashirama says with a laugh, “besides, what kind of a person would I be to turn down someone who was already _literally_ at my doorstep?”

_Any regular business owner would, _Madara thinks but does not say aloud. He still does not take the cup. “Shouldn’t I be paying first?”

“Of course not, I was the one who invited you in, not the other way around! So don’t worry about paying or anything like that. And don’t worry, I’m not going to charge you as soon as you take a sip either, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

Now Madara really frowns. “I can’t do that,” he protests, looking at the mug then back at Hashirama. “I’ve probably already delayed you closing up the store, the least I can do is pay for my own drink.”

Hashirama shakes his head, smiling. “Nope, I won’t accept. You didn’t request any of this, remember? I even asked if you wanted coffee when you first came in, and you never gave me an affirmative answer, so technically it’s not even _your _drink, since I chose to give it to you. Just think of it as a welcome back, if it really bothers you so much.”

“You’re trying pretty hard to make me drink it, you sure this isn’t drugged?” The words slip from Madara’s mouth unbidden. He cringes the instant he hears them, but Hashirama just tips back his head and laughs, hearty and bright and amused.

“That’s the first time someone’s phrased it so directly,” he grins once the laughter’s subsided, “usually they all try to put off drinking it until after they leave, and then I’m sure they just pour it down a storm drain somewhere. That’s a shame if you ask me, since for one, that’s bad for the environment, and two, it’s a waste of good caffeine.”

Madara’s lips quirk before he can think the better of it. “You do this a lot then, give out free drinks to random people after sundown?”

“Usually only during the daytime, aside from the ones I offer to all new visitors,” Hashirama replies, winking. “You’re actually the first in terms of afterhours. So, are you gonna try drinking it?”

Madara blinks slowly. He looks back down at the coffee. The coffee stares innocently back. “Sure, why not?” he shrugs at last. “There’s probably easier ways to actually abduct people.” He slips one hand out of his coat pocket as he says this, grasping the mug handle and bringing it carefully to his lips.

His eyes widen the moment the taste registers on his tongue. “It’s…” _the exact same taste as last time_, but he does not say that because he’s simply not processing that fact. “You…how did you do this?” He finally asks, because he’s only one in the_ hundreds _of people who have surely visited this café. He’s amazed enough that Hashirama even remembered _his name, _much less the coffee he had made for himself on a whim _two weeks ago_!

“It’s the right flavor then? Wonderful! For a moment I was worried I’d put in too much sugar, but I thought I remembered you put in two spoons full last time, so I just went with it and hoped I was right. I was, wasn’t I?”

Madara can only shake his head. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says quietly, before taking another sip. Then, “I insist on paying for this, or at least for the one I had the first time. Take your pick of the two if you want, but you have to let me for at least one, it’s only fair.”

Hashirama looks up from where he was wiping off the countertop and smiles pleasantly. “I disagree, I think it’s only fair if I can have my say in my own shop, right? And I say I will not charge for either one of your drinks, either tonight’s or the one from two weeks ago.”

“Well I’m the customer, and therefore my word is law.”

“Actually, you’re a guest in my shop, so my status as host outranks you.”

“…That’s not how businesses work.”

“That’s how mine works though.”

“And heaven knows how it’s working, how do you even _run_ this place when you’re giving away so much for free all the time?”

“Easy! It’s all my stuff, and I give my stuff away for free when I feel like it.”

“Damn it Hashirama, you’re not making this easy at all. How did you even survive up to this point as a business with such a cavalier attitude towards your money?”

The man opens his mouth, no doubt to shoot off some other witty reply, but then he pauses as if he’s not quite sure he heard the words right. Madara mentally replays what he just said and nearly blanches, but Hashirama’s expression has already shifted into one of wonder. “You said you didn’t remember my name,” he says, beaming, and Madara just wants to _disappear _into his coat. He stares daggers into his coffee instead, his lips pressed white and thin.

“…Just take it, Madara.” Hashirama’s tone was kind when he finally spoke again, though it was one that brokered no arguments. “Just take it, alright? You don’t owe me any favors for this, or anything else at all, not even your company, alright? No strings attached. You’re still free to come and go as you please. Believe me, the last thing I want is to saddle you with a debt you don’t want to carry.”

Madara looks up sharply at this last sentence, but Hashirama just smiles brightly in an all-too-innocent manner. The knowing glint is back in his eyes, and it suddenly occurs to Madara that even if this man had _no sense whatsoever _when it came to running a proper business, in other aspects he was _astute_.

Whatever words he had planned dies in his throat, and for a moment he simply sits there, utterly bewildered in this aftermath. Something in Hashirama’s eyes softens further. “Hey,” he says, smiling, “look, if you really do insist on paying me back, we can work something out alright? Just not today though, it _is _pretty late, and I’m sure we both have long days again tomorrow, don’t we? Why don’t you just take this coffee home with you right now, and we can figure things out later, sounds alright?”

“…Sure.” Some part of Madara’s mind vaguely registered that the other man had brought up the late hour more for Madara’s sake than for his own, but the weariness of the day and the confusion of the last couple minutes proved too much. Despite his latest injection of caffeine, his brain simply balked at the prospect of more complex thinking. He slides off the coffee bar stool and turns to leave, his movements mechanical, when Hashirama stops him once more.

“Wait, aren’t you forgetting something?” the other man asks, grinning. A still half-full mug of coffee (the one he had just left on the table, his realized) was pressed into his uncomprehending hands. “If I see you again I’ll be expecting both my money and my coffee mug alright? Think of it as collateral.”

The mug is warm through his gloves, almost to the point where it burns. “I’m pretty sure that’s _not _how collateral works,” Madara mumbles, but he just cups his hands more snugly around his coffee and allows Hashirama to guide him to the exit.

The warmth in his heart lingers long after his mug was empty.


	3. Chapter 3

The mug stays in Madara’s apartment for almost exactly a week. The stout ceramic with its warm, earthen reds and golds is striking on his drying rack, propped against a backdrop of featureless tall glasses.

He finds that he’s almost reluctant to see it go, but common-sense dictates that he cannot keep it forever, so he shows up some time before work on a Thursday morning to return it. His phone display reads 6:58 AM, and Madara bites his lip slightly as he scans the small crowd already gathered at the front door of the still-closed café. They came in all their walks of life—workers in their sturdy overalls and hard hats, students dragging their backpacks, businesspeople with their eyes glued to their phone screens. In hindsight, he really should have known that the place would be much more popular in the mornings. He settles gingerly at the fringes, eyes darting from his phone to the mass of people before him, then to his phone once again, and for just a moment he considers abandoning the mission for another day, but then the door of the small shop flips open and the choice is no longer his own.

“Good morning, welcome welcome!” It was that same voice, bright and more cheerful than ever despite the early hour. “How’s everyone doing? Come on in!”

The crowd murmurs a chorus of scattered “good mornings,” funneling slowly into the café. Madara stares as Hashirama greets each person by name as they walk into the shop, making the occasional inquiry, giving the occasional friendly wave, and always, _always _smiling. His gloved hands tighten over his workbag, where the mug is safely tucked under two layers of dish towels. The weight of it seems to root him to the spot.

Over by the café entrance, Hashirama is shepherding the last of the early morning crowd through the door. When the last person had crossed on over the threshold, Madara could see Hashirama’s eyes scan over the premises one final time, and inevitably—they meet his own.

“Madara, it’s good to see you!” The man exclaims, positively beaming as he walks over from the doorway to come to greet him. It takes everything Madara has to not look away.

“Good morning,” is all he could manage before Hashirama takes over in all his exuberance.

“Hey now, before you say anything, I’m going to have to insist that you come inside first. It’ll look bad on me if I leave you standing out here in the cold! I’ll gladly hear you out over a hot mug of coffee once I serve my other guests. How does that sound?”

_No, I’m just here to return your mug, _is what he should have said and done, but then he remembers the small crowd Hashirama had just ferried through his café doors. Already he could feel the gazes of some of them fixing upon him and Hashirama, probing with curiosity. He supposes he could have just taken the mug out his bag, tossed it to Hashirama and run off right then and there, but that seemed like an all-too-peculiar image even in his own mind, much less in the eyes of strangers. While Madara would normally have little care for outsiders’ opinions, he did not want to saddle Hashirama with any awkward situations, and so he allows himself to follow Hashirama over the threshold and into the brilliant café interior_, _with the early morning sun streaming in behind him.

Inside the café, an orderly line had already formed, starting from the coffee bar. Hashirama slips behind the counter with practiced ease, radiating cheer as he takes the first person’s order, and Madara settles himself at the back of the café to wait. He’s a creature of habit, so it’s no surprise when he finds himself sitting at the same corner table as he had during that stormy afternoon. The lilies that Hashirama had introduced him to upon that first visit were still in full bloom, their quiet fragrance draining the tension from his shoulders.

He scrolls through his phone for some time, skimming emails, reading contracts. It was now 7:07 AM, and in the back of his mind, he sees the vapid, unadorned walls of his office—a stark contrast to his current surroundings. As the hour progresses, so he pictures that the other people in his company would soon begin to show for work. They would walk out of the elevator and turn the corner down the hall, only to find his door locked and the lights dimmed for the first time in two years. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought.

“What’s got you in such a good mood today?” A smooth voice interrupts. Madara looks up and finds Hashirama already standing before his table with curious eyes and a bright smile. The man’s sweep of dark chocolate hair is down again today, each strand curling neatly and affectionately at his elbows.

He dismisses the question. “Nothing that important. You were much faster than I expected though.” Madara frowns, thinking of the line of people he had seen just before sitting down.

“Oh, that? That actually wasn’t too bad.” Hashirama laughs. “I’m glad you found a spot to relax for a time though! I take it that you like this part of the setup?”

“…I suppose. It helps that the flowers haven’t wilted yet.”

“I’m glad you approve! These lilies are supposed to bloom for quite a while, I think for around two months, actually. They can bloom twice a year too if they’re well-cared for. I’d like to think they are, but I guess we’ll see since I’m obviously biased.”

That wrangles a smile out of Madara, one that surprises even himself. “Somehow I’m not really concerned about that,” he says, glancing at the array of flora adorning the other parts of the café. Aside from him and Hashirama, one man is typing away on a laptop, another chewing his pen in the opposite corner, and that…seems to be it, aside from a scattering of people still contemplating the menu at the front. “It seems like most everyone has gone off to work,” he muses, _and normally I would be way ahead of them, _is the part he does not add out loud.

“Yep, that was the first wave of the morning rush,” Hashirama confirms. “There’s usually a few minutes downtime between now and around 7:20 AM, since the next wave of people is usually trying to catch the 7:30 shift. Not that I envy them. If you want busy though, you should come here on the weekend sometime, that’s when it really gets hectic. I have to call on my brother for help sometimes because it gets a little hard to manage here on my own.”

“Brother?” The question leaves his mouth before he has time to regret it. Fortunately, his tongue smooths over the word with only the slightest of pauses, and he breathes a mental sigh of relief.

Hashirama visibly brightens at the question. “Oh yeah, my little brother helps me out a lot! Usually not in a direct way though, since he’s actually pretty busy with his own work, but he’s definitely more efficient than me when it comes to taxes. His students also come over on the occasion that he’s feeling generous, which isn’t as often as it should be in my opinion. He’s much more a fan of the hard sciences than I am, so I can usually find him still in his lab even after I close up for the day. I keep telling him he works too much for his own good.”

The joyous pride in Hashirama’s voice is clear, infectious even, and Madara is by no means immune to it. Despite the gnawing ache in his heart that throbs with each mention of _that _word, _brother_, he feels his lips quirking slightly as he listens. “That’s nice,” he says quietly at the end of Hashirama’s enthusiastic commentary.

“Yeah! He actually does try to be nice, even though he’s quite clumsy the way he goes about it. But I’m getting off-topic, aren’t I?” Hashirama gives his head a little shake as if he was laughing at himself, and his hair follows the action in a ripple of rich, silken brown. “Could I get you something to drink today?”

Madara tears his eyes away from the waterfall of dark strands. “No, I just….” He swallows faintly and turns to rummage in his bag instead, carefully extracting the mug from its protective layers before setting it on the table. “I just meant to return this,” he manages to say, and he pushes the mug across the table towards Hashirama.

“Oh, thank you!” Hashirama plucks the mug from the tabletop with surprising gentleness. Madara watches a little incredulously as he cradles the mug, cupping it with both palms as if he were holding a baby bird instead of a piece of ceramic. “I’ve nearly forgotten about this fellow,” Hashirama says, and the full force of his smiling eyes is once again turned on Madara. “Surely you must let me do something to repay you?”

“I returned a mug that was originally yours, that hardly seems to warrant repayment,” Madara points out dryly. “Besides, I need to leave for work soon.”

Hashirama simply beams in response. “That’s no problem, I’ll be right back with it!”

“Wait, with what?” Madara asks, but Hashirama’s already gone, retreated behind the coffee bar in a whirl of dark hair and apron and cream-colored sweater. When Madara thinks to check, he notices that the ceramic mug is also gone from the table. His self-appointed mission accomplished, he briefly contemplates leaving, but the sounds of a whirring coffee machine reach his ears in a belated tune and he pauses in his seat. He hesitates for a few critical moments, long enough for Hashirama to re-emerge from behind the counter with a tall blue thermos, and by then it was too late to make his escape.

“At least take this with you,” the man says cheerfully as he presses the _entire thermos _into Madara’s uncomprehending hands. “I just made it your usual way this time since you’re in a hurry, but perhaps the next time you come around I can persuade you to try something else? Perhaps some type of dark roast, I’m sure I have at least some varieties that will suit your tastes.” His espresso eyes are gleaming with amusement.

“…And you just gave me this entire thing without me paying for it.” As he speaks, Madara’s eyes are fixed upon the thermos—it sat heavily in his hands, a sizable muted blue tumbler embellished with tiny white birds. It was barely even sloshing, obviously filled to the brim. He could barely feel the warmth of his own fingers upon the thermos, much less that of the coffee inside, such was the drinkware’s insulative quality. “You can’t tell me you do this for _all _your guests, now do you? What will you do if I run off with this and don’t come back? These—” he gives the thermos a slight shake—“don’t exactly grow on trees, you know.”

“Well, I certainly don’t do this for all my visitors,” Hashirama chuckles, holding up both hands in the universal gesture for peace, “but I’m not exactly worried about you running off with anything anytime soon. I mean, you insisted on paying me for the coffee _I _offered you the last time we met, and you returned my mug just now, so the precedent seems to be in my favor. Besides, you seem like you needed it.” This last sentence is said in a much quieter tone, low enough that Madara knew it was only meant for his ears. He looks up sharply, but Hashirama’s eyes have taken on that knowing glint once more, and he’s forced to avert his gaze.

“…I don’t want or need charity,” he says instead, his voice tight, his eyes affixed to floorboards. He pushes the thermos back in Hashirama’s direction in a blind motion, only to have it nudged back into his grasp by a gentle force, and he almost, _almost _gasps out loud—in that instant, the warmth of Hashirama’s hands over his own gloved ones jolts through him. He nearly recoils from the touch, but Hashirama only adjusts Madara’s fingers to steady his hold on the thermos before retreating promptly.

“It’s not charity, Madara,” he says firmly, though not unkindly. “Charity is only what is given to people who find that they have great difficulty helping themselves without it. What I’ve handed you here is hardly a mood booster. I doubt it would qualify as a charity by any standard. Besides, I do expect you to return my thermos,” he finishes, cheerful lilt sliding back into his voice.

Madara’s lips are worn thin between his teeth. His fingers are wrapped around the thermos in a death grip, and he’s sure that his knuckles are white beneath protective leather gloves. When he finally manages to look back up once more, Hashirama meets his gaze. The morning sun falls upon him like a stage light, casting handsome shadows across his face, and despite the man’s jovial demeanor and carefree smile, there is a core of steel in those dark eyes that Madara recognizes.

“…Hm.” Madara tucks the thermos to his side with a huff, somehow packing all his doubts and dissatisfactions into that one grunt. He is far from assuaged, but there is little to do now other than causing a scene in public, which is the last thing he needs. What he needs now is a cool, isolated place to either sort out his emotions or bury them. A cool, isolated place like his office. If he could have spared a hand, he would have pinched his brows with it—for all his will and self-discipline, he could not remember the last time he had felt so off-balance.

But he still could not resist one last jibe before he left. “So, all these free giveaways, is this all just part of your marketing strategy?”

Hashirama, infuriatingly but expectedly, does not fall for it. “I mean, you can call it marketing if you really insist,” he chortles, “but I just like to think of it as me trying to brighten up someone’s day, regardless of how well that works or not. I’ll see you sometime, Madara.” He holds out that last sentence with an expectant edge, and that simple gesture is enough to turn the tables.

Madara turns and half-storms out of the café. He tries not to feel like he’s fleeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I am so sorry this took as long as it did. I crammed this in amidst finals so I have no guarantees quality-wise, but regardless I hope you got some enjoyment out of it. I'll try to come back and edit as time permits. Thank you for all your lovely comments as well, I've read every single one and it really keeps me going :)


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